


Long To Reign Over Us

by Buttergin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Family Feels, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship study, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Holmes In Training, Humor, Kid Fic, Multi, Pining, Relationship Study, Romance, Scotland Yard, Slow Build, briefly a, is there a tag for that? a tag for following a character through their whole life?, life fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:05:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4017403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttergin/pseuds/Buttergin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To know why a person, any person, is who they are today, one must go back to their very beginnings. An in-depth look at Mycroft, Greg, and Molly through their lives, tracing their stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long To Reign Over Us

**Author's Note:**

> This has sort of been a work in progress for about 2 years- I've blamed writer's block, I've blamed lack of time, I've blamed literally everything possible. Truth is, I've just been terrified to post anything for such a huge and popular fandom, I suppose. But I really can't put it off any longer. And so, here we are. This fanfic promises to be huge-- and a very large undertaking. I'm still in school, so while I will try to update as often as possible, please do keep that in mind. I intend to keep as much of this as 'canon correct' as possible. Inevitably, a new season will come out and I'll be proven completely wrong but hey, I'll try my best.  
> The title comes from one of my favorite bits of God Save The Queen.  
> ((Don't forget to give feedback!!))

Mycroft Holmes was born on misty Sunday morning- appropriate, his nannies will say to him later, because he proceeded to spend the rest of the day sleeping. He was not a fussy baby, but instead a very quiet one, which had initially caused some concern between his parents.

“Not to worry, Mrs. Holmes,” Ms. Rolen had assured her, “I’ve dealt with a lot of babies. Loud babies, quiet babies, sleepy babies, whiny babies, cry-y babies; they’re all different. I don’t think he’ll be waking you up often, and if I were you, I’d thank God in Heaven for that.”

Even if Mycroft _had_ been a noisy baby, it wouldn’t have been his parents’ job to quiet him down, in any case. It wasn’t honestly his parents’ job to do anything but be happy that they had a son to carry on the family name. Siger and Celestine Holmes would have enjoyed spending more time with their little one, surely, but they had their responsibilities. The early years would be spent largely apart from their boy, but they loved him. They did love him, very, very much.

To their friends, (‘friends’) the Holmes’ liked to brag about what any parent might. Oh, he’s begun to crawl, even this early, he’s spoken his first real word, he’s so intelligent, he’s got good manners, etcetera, etcetera.

It was not until their boy was 4 years old and spoke to them about his concern over diplomatic relations with Iceland that they felt quite certain that their quiet child might have, indeed, carried on the Holmes tradition of quiet remarkableness.

       

000

 

Mycroft Holmes had, in his mind, three main assets by the age of 12;

1\. His incredible intelligence

2\. His family's enormous fortune, and

3\. His ability to avoid all (most) of the Legos his little brother strategically placed around the house, waiting to be stepped on.

“What- OW!- Hey- AHHH!!”

Which of these assets would be most useful to him as the years went on was unclear, though he had a sneaking suspicion it might just be number 3.

“SHERLOCK!”

“Mummy! Mycroft’s being mean!”

Sherlock Holmes, unlike his elder brother, had not exactly been an easy child. He’d begun crying and making a fuss  2 ½ minutes after being born, and it hadn’t seemed like he had stopped since. But, on the bright side, those 2 ½ minutes were absolutely _delightful_.

Or, so Mycroft had been told.

Neither of the Holmes children had quite been born with any sort of… _quiet_ remarkableness that both their parents had been blessed with. Mycroft had learned to stifle and channel this somewhat, already fiercely aware of how the world worked and how he could exploit it. But Mycroft, try as he might, could not get his younger brother to see reason. 

“Stop being petulant and get over here! I told you we were going to play today ages ago, and if you don’t get over here, we’ll be _late_ ,” Mycroft said, climbing onto the windowsill in their small playroom. The window overlooked the garden, which on this particular Spring morning, as with most, appeared to be the very picture of tranquility. Unlike the inside of the house, at the moment. Sherlock plopped down on the ground, right in the doorway of the playroom. His paper hat drooped low on his face and he pushed it back with the heel of his hand. “What if I don’t want to? Huh? What then?” the 5 year old teased.

“But you do want to, we both know you do. You like playing. And if you don’t I will hide all of your toys on the top shelves where you can’t reach.”

“I’d find them! And Redbeard would help me get them.” At the sound of his name, paws could be heard hitting the floor for a moment before the Irish setter puppy bounded through the doorway, before licking Sherlock’s face. He squealed and loosely tried to push the dog away, but then thought better of it and wrapped his arms around Redbeard’s neck.

Mycroft chuckled lightly at the sight before patting the seat next to him twice. Redbeard’s ears perked up immediately and he turned to stare at Mycroft, who, still smiling, raised his eyebrows and patted the seat next to him once again. There was a brief pause before the young puppy came bounding over, or, tried to, as Sherlock still clung to his neck. He eventually let go and Redbeard jumped up on the window seat, closely followed by Sherlock.

“Told you I’d get you here eventually.” Sherlock stuck out his tongue, but Mycroft continued, “Good dog,” and scratched behind Redbeard’s ears. The puppy quickly settled into Mycroft’s lap and he leaned against the wall. Mycroft turned to look out of the large window to his left. It was a Sunday morning, dew still on the grass, light filtering in through the trees into the colorful garden, and, right on time, as Mycroft had predicted, (and by this point in his life, Mycroft had realized he was always right, when it came right down to it,) entered a man through the garden gate. Mycroft gave a small point and Sherlock pressed his face to the glass to see.

“Tell me everything you can about that man. I’m timing you. **_Go_**.”


End file.
